The Men Who Wear the Spades
by sequestration13
Summary: Who are the mysterious warriors who showed up in the final hours of Modern Warfare 2? Price and Soap attempt to find out. One-Shot


The Men Who Wear the Spades

_Kandahar, Afghanistan_

Dissonant music blared from inside the garage of their safehouse. The two fugitives were trying their best to ignore the racket that was bouncing around their scantily appointed temporary home. Over a cup of coffee, the elder one grimaced as a singer reached a scarily shrill note. "Can't you turn the bloody music off, Soap?"

"Nope. Keeps every prisoner uncomfortable that I've interrogated so far" replied Captain MacTavish, who was busily leafing through the effects of said prisoner. He quickly saw family photos, which he pocketed, and began sorting the food, ammunition, and survival equipment out on a hastily erected plastic table.

Mornings since the day of their betrayal were mainly composed of planning and gathering intel for their final push into Site Hotel Bravo. But Shepherd, being the nasty bugger that he is, had quickly seen to it that any plans or whisperings on the white (or black) markets were mysteriously missing. Both men were subsisting on caffeine, adrenaline, and rage as the boom box in the nearly empty garage made sleep nearly impossible. The guest inside the garage would not be getting any sleep, though.

Unfortunately for Captains Price and MacTavish, the guest had been the source of very little operational intel. He had been quite a handful and it had taken several sessions to just get him to talk. But their assault was planned for three days from now, and times had gotten desperate. And thank God that the music would finally be over.

A man with tousled brown hair was chained to the roof and the floor. After a first round of back-talk the day after his capture, he was still completely naked. The garage reeked of feces and urine, which was not helped by the absolutely stifling, muggy air. Captain Price stood for a second in the open doorway, looking upon what had been a proud warrior of Shadow Company. A dogged one, who had managed to barely get inside Nikolai's plane before the ramp shut before finding himself at the business end of several rifles.

The result was a potentially invulnerable insight into the elite warriors that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. But it was apparently for naught.

"Not many people listen to Alban Berg, Captain. I believe this is the third act of _Wozzeck," _came a silky voice.

Oh Lord. Here we go again. Price walked over and turned off the music.

"I assume my friend doesn't know of your . . . eclectic . . . musical tastes?"

"Oh no, Captain. He knows. He just thinks I'm too idiotic to enjoy it."

That got an internal chuckle from Captain Price. Soap. Always the FNG.

"So, who am I talking to, who knows about atonal music?"

A pause came from the chained figure.

"A patriot. A new American man. A man who knows his country. A man who will fight and die for his country."

"Come on, my friend," Price slowly closed the door, leaving the room in utter darkness once again. "I'm going to need much more than that."

"What does it matter? The righteous might of America will find you and bring you traitors to justice."

Price's response was a series of punches to the lovingly crafted bruises gracing the unknown Shadow Company grunt. "My other friend is currently finding whatever he can about you. He has a knack for reading what each man has in his gear."

"And what will he find?" choked out the man. "He will find the tools of war. Hardly identifying."

"Ah. War. What changes? War changes." Captain Price's disembodied voice floated around the space. "The nature of war is forever in flux. Each moment is easily identified, easily catalogued, and easily profiled. You think anonymity is in war? Think again."

Struggling to find a return comment, the prisoner decided to change the subject. "And what of you? As you say, the world is smaller now. The United States will find you and kill you, so why should I talk?"

A sharp stabbing pain in his right leg was all the answer he needed.

* * *

As the screams began in earnest again, Captain MacTavish continued his methodical dissection their guest's effects. One thing that he had difficulty figuring out was where this guy had come from. Sure he had the family photo, but apart from that, the effects seemed anonymous. They belonged to no one. The only thing different was that spade patch. They were nothing but the men who wear the spades, he thought ruefully as he gazed at the enigmatic patch.

* * *

Meanwhile, inside the Ministry of Love, Price was quickly working through his repertoire of enhanced interrogation techniques. Although no longer the virtuoso that he had once been, he was still proficient enough to use them in near total darkness. The result was a nearly gibbering man who still clung to dogma. Barely.

"WE CANNOT DO SO WITH THEM!" screamed the man. "AMERICA WILL NO LONGER BE – OOOOWWW!" pausing only because of the exquisitely painful ministrations of Captain Price. "SUB – JUGA –TED!"

* * *

_Three Days Later_

Site Hotel Bravo would have to be attacked solo, and nearly blind, without intel. But it wouldn't be for a lack of trying.

"What a bloody mess, isn't it, Soap?" asked Price in the noisy chopper cabin.

"Aye, but the healthy human mind doesn't dwell on his past failures. Does it, Price?"

"Shut up, Soap."

* * *

Call of Duty, Modern Warfare 2, its script, universe, lore, and characters are the intellectual property of Activision Blizzard and Infinity Ward. The user sequestration13 understands this and this fanfiction is not for profit.


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